


Courtship displays and other problems

by DarkShadeless



Series: SWTOR - collection [14]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: ... actually it might be mostly angst sliiiiding into fluff, Arcann's field surgery is mentioned VERY BRIEFLY but in PoV, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, So yeah, Uhm, WHAT TROPE COULD BE BETTER, You know what I mean, about the past thing, accidental Marriage Proposal, canon typical past mentioned, courting, damn it, dat tag, how is this a tag that doesn't yet exist XD, okay it's... mostly fluff, srsly, they might as well be a character, this is all fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Usually, Arcann does not bother much with the cantina. Tonight... tonight he's in desperate need of a drink, a distraction or both.





	Courtship displays and other problems

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doomhamster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomhamster/gifts).



> HERE IT IS. I hope you like it XD
> 
> Originally inspired by the romance-opportunity cutscene we got, I'm sure you know which one ;)

Usually, Arcann does not bother much with the cantina. Most inhabitants of Odessen are still awkward at best around him, not that he can blame them.

_I never thought I’d stand on Odessen as anything but a conqueror._

He had told their Commander so, driven by the need to impress upon the man just how much he valued what he had been given. By the desire to, perhaps, bridge some of the gap between them that felt too much like a yawning abyss.

The thought had guided Arcann’s hands in his work on the armour he had crafted while he was still coming to terms with all that had changed, with just how lucky he had been to have this chance, despite everything. He had so much to make up for.

Yet here he was.

As if in reflection of that, his craftsmanship wasn’t finished. It had seemed appropriate for Commander Sar to have what he had made until then, nevertheless.

Arcann saw well how carefully their leader held himself around him. He wasn’t unkind, never that, and what a miracle in and of itself was that? But he was watchful, always watchful, of his once-enemy.

Of his mother, too. She hadn’t said anything about it. If the distance was a consequence of her actions in Arcann’s defence maybe she was taking it has her due, as he himself was.

Their Commander was a man subjected to one betrayal too many, it was easy to see. To still be capable of such compassion… How could Arcann help but admire him?

An admiration that might not be as hopeless as it had first appeared.

Arcann turned his glass of whatever questionable core-world substance the barkeep had sent his way in his hands, mulling once again over his dilemma. Almost a month had gone by since he had steeled himself for whatever reaction he might receive and asked their Commander to meet him.

Seeing Sar’s reserve splinter into surprise at his gift had been gratifying. The man had seemed almost embarrassed, quipped about returning the favour, if he had known there was an occasion. It had been pleasant, to be the target of their Commander’s banter for once.

What Arcann hadn’t known how to take was how quickly their leader had extracted himself from the conversation. The Sith had denied all gratitude, awkward as he had never seen him before.

_It’s fine. It’s good to see you… well._

He had wanted to ask, to clarify if- but that was silly, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be. His intention had been understood, Arcann was sure, and that had to be enough.

Commander Sar had turned up to the next strategy meeting with the Zakuulan style armour pieces a subtle but noticeable change in his uniform. It had been a show of trust Arcann hadn’t dared hope for. The reality of it had made his heart beat faster.

Especially since he still wasn’t sure- he didn’t know- but it couldn’t be. Arcann was imagining things. He had to be.

That didn’t mean he was going back on his wordless promise. Dutifully he had continued his craft, one piece after another. The work was almost meditative, granting him a form of absolution he rarely found.

To spare their Commander further discomfort (or was he sparing himself from the inevitable rejection?) he had left his gifts in Sar’s office, after the first. Their leader never said a word of it but he would wear them without fail.

Until today.

Arcann had worked into the small hours on the connectors on the second vambrace, finally finishing up the work of a week. From shoulder joint to the fingertips, it had to be perfect after all. There was nothing like an ill-tuned armguard to get a warrior killed.

He had left it where he always did.

Maybe he had been too late for the day? Maybe… Arcann closed his eyes and sighed. _I’m such a fool. It’s his choice, there’s nothing to get worked up about._

He’s so intent on his own _ridiculous emotions_ he misses the subtle cues that might tell him who just entered. At least until someone takes the seat beside him that’s gone carefully ignored all evening.

“There you are. You’re a hard man to find.”

There’s no reprimand attached to the words, just mild humor. Arcann straightens from his slouch, years’ worth of habit in the face of superior officers and his father demanding _respect_ getting the better of him. At least this is someone actually worthy of it. It saps the impulse of its hatefulness and leaves him feeling... _other_ things. “Commander.”

“Arcann.” The man flags down the waiter droid with a lazy wave. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

If droids had expressions, Arcann is sure this one would match his own reaction to that.

“You might not want to risk that. I… I have to admit I am unsure what _this_ ,” he tilts the noxious green liquid in the light. There’s purple foam on top of it. _Mercy of Scyva._ “Is.” _And I’m not sure I want to know._

Sar musters him, a shadow of concern flickering over his face that makes something in Arcann’s chest _ache_ so fiercely his mouth goes dry, no matter that his worries are unnecessary. While tensions run high between him and certain members of the Alliance (and for good reason) their Commander’s subjects have followed his example without fail. If there have been petty acts of revenge, Arcann hasn’t taken notice of them. “I asked for the special.”

“Oh dear.”

They spend some time sitting in silence, more comfortable than not, the former Emperor and prince staring at his beverage while his Commander actually sips at his because he _knows no fear,_ merciful Gods _._

Perhaps his grimace wasn’t as well hidden as he had thought. Sar laughs. “It’s not that bad.”

That is a filthy lie. It really is that bad. It’s _worse_.

By the mischievous grin Sar hides in his own drink when Arcann, embolded by his claim, tries it and almost chokes, he knows it all too well.

The prince can’t decide if he is dismayed or delighted to be the subject of such harmless trickery. He spends some time contemplating that alongside of whether or not the napkins they offer here are clean enough to risk scrubbing his tongue with them.

“Did you require something? Since you were looking for me, I mean,” Arcann forcibly does not think about the implications.

The Commander still isn’t wearing the newest piece of armour. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment he will be told, in no uncertain terms, to stop what he has been doing.

A warrior would recognize a gift like that for all it is, all it could be, no matter the culture. Arcann hadn’t framed it that way, when he first made the gesture but… he can admit to himself he might have hoped for what he didn’t deserve.

The discomfort blooming on Sar’s face doesn’t help his nerves. This hesitation is unlike him. Is he trying to find a way not to hurt Arcann’s feelings? That would be- actually that would be in line with all he has seen from the man. He’s only brusque with his enemies.

That’s not what they are anymore.

_And what are we?_

Before Arcann can chase that thought to answers he’s not sure he wants to find, the Commander clears his throat. “Arcann, I wanted to thank you, for your work.” His hands clench, subtly. It hurts to watch. “And I wanted to apologise.”

_So this is it._

Sar looks at him, then, facing this head on as he does every obstacle Arcann has watched him encounter, no matter how terrifying. He almost wishes he didn’t. The earnest determination hardening his features might be more than he can bear.

“I value how much time and effort you’ve expended on my account but… I can’t wear it. I should have told you sooner.”

He had known this was coming. It had to, eventually. Still the words take hold of a small and fragile thing that has grown in Arcann’s heart with crushing force. He swallows hard.

The pain is abstract, like losing his arm was at first. Once the shock fades, he’ll feel it fully.

“I understand.” It’s not a lie, or a platitude. Arcann had known from the start he shouldn’t hope for- Hope for things that would not be.

Sar, poised to continue, more likely than not to soothe the hurts he left in his wake for no fault of his own, pauses. “You do? Then why make it?”

“I thought,” every word is like a shard of broken glass, but Arcann forces himself to continue. His Commander deserves better than his silence. He deserves better than him. “That you might consider it. Thank you for clarifying your position on the matter.”

“You did?” Surprise takes Commander Sar and leaves him unguarded, colouring with embarrassment. “Arcann, it’s a big step. I can’t afford to take the time right now.”

Duty. It’s not the reason the prince expected to hear but of course he should have. The Alliance comes first to her Commander, always. It… he’s not sure that makes the rejection hurt less.

He hasn’t been turned aside for his own failings, at least, or has he? Arcann could live with his lover being devoted to his cause, with body, heart and spirit. It’s one of the things he admires so much about the man after all. He could support him in that, if he was allowed.

In fact, that’s what he hoped was what the acceptance of his gifts meant.

“And, in all honesty, you have to see that we don’t know each other that well yet.” Sar continues, growing more flustered and animated with every word. His gestures, usually expansive and sure, are anything but.

Arcann watches the change, slightly breathless. _‘Yet’. ‘Right now’._ Did he mean- Was there a chance that- In time. Maybe. _Is he just trying to let me down easy?_

“I don’t even know if it’s _possible_. Oggurobb could do it, probably, but- but- Last week he tried to convince me to feed our recruits to the Dashade for a treat! I’m not letting him turn me into a pet project!”

 _Wait, what?_ Where did the Hutt come into play?

“I’m sorry, Commander. I’m not sure I follow?”

Sar, looking more out of sorts than Arcann has ever seen him, buries his face in his hands with a strangled sound. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, _Why am I so bad at this?_

“Look,” with the tenacity he has come to value so highly, the Commander forges on, “the technology gap isn’t easy to bridge. It wouldn’t be a problem in most cases but I’ve had self-sustaining nanotech installed and that’s just asking for trouble. If it’s not spliced correctly it might cannibalize itself and I _need my arm_.”

Arcann quite frankly has no idea what to say to that.

“Like I said, I should have warned you. I didn’t think you would,” Sar cuts himself off and breathes deeply, in the way all trained Force sensitives no matter the school seem to do to find their center, “I should have warned you.”

By now the prince isn’t actually sure they are having the same conversation. “Should have warned me of what, exactly?”

“That my cybernetics aren’t standard issue?”

“Your cybernetics.” Arcann has no idea what his expression looks like. He hopes none of his own association with the word leaks through. _Dust. Pain. His brother holding him down, while the med droid cuts away at his shoulder._

His left hand clenches into a fist almost without his say so. He had had no idea their Commander was anything but whole.

 _When? How? Did I contribute to this? Did my_ _troops?_

“Yes.” He cannot say if Sar is watching him carefully because the man sees right through him or because their Commander has arrived at the same conclusion he did. “The ones you just told me you knew about.”

_I understand._

_You do? Then why make it?_

“The reason why you can’t wear my gift.” The soft thing Arcann can’t, won’t, name blossoms like a flower in the sun. He shouldn’t set himself up for more disappointment. Truly.

“Yes.”

It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean his gifts have been received in the spirit he hoped they would be. He shouldn’t push. He shouldn’t ask-

“What did you think I was apologising for?” Sar’s tone is goading, gentle. He couldn’t deny him if he tried.

“I thought you were rejecting,” Arcann’ll face this like the prince he claims to be. Like the man he _wants_ to be, “my suit.”

His words dip the space between them in silence. His Commander is still watching him the same, careful way as before. There’s not even a hint of surprise on his face. _So he did know what my gifts were supposed to mean._

Sar is blushing again, faintly, and there’s something about him that’s almost vulnerable. Something Arcann will not be able to encase in protections the way he wants to, no matter how hard he tries. It makes him beautiful, despite his scars and the shadows of exhaustion that never leave his face. “I wasn’t.”

Quiet but sure, and Arcann’s heart is in his throat, choking any response he might have had. _Oh._

Another chance and it is more than he ever would have dared expect. The person he thinks he might love will allow him to see if that is true. If it can be returned.

“But you said we did not know each other well enough for,” Arcann trails off, replaying the Commander’s transformation into a complete, flustered mess before his mind’s eye. He does not seem so discomfited by the thought of a courtship. Which begs the question, “What did _you_ think I meant?”

There it is, the colour rising high on the Sith’s pale cheeks. He looks very, very caught. For once, their leader cannot seem to find words.

But it’s not so hard to get to the bottom of, now that Arcann can make the connections.

If whatever replacements his Commander has make choosing a new glove a matter of actual reconstruction...

His gift was something their Commander would have to make a part of himself to wear and his answer was _‘not yet’._

A sudden influx of both elation and terror wars for dominance. Arcann can appreciate how the man in front of him has been reduced to incoherency. He’s no better off. “Oh.”

Despite his obvious mortification, Sar laughs softly. “Quite.”

Arcann can’t resist. Not when he knows he hasn’t been denied, when he might be allowed. He leans in, slowly, watching some of the mirth drain away. He’d mourn it if it wasn’t replaced by tentative anticipation. By _desire_.

The kiss is soft, chaste. He wouldn’t dare try for more. Not yet.

At least not in the middle of the cantina, that has fallen suspiciously quiet around them.

Sar must notice it too. Of course he does, it’s not exactly subtle.

If he has he doesn't seem to give it any thought, he just keeps looking at Arcann with that light in his eyes that reminds him too much of the feelings growing in his heart, like the most delicate blossoms of the royal gardens he used to play in once upon a time. None of them was ever as beautiful, or as fragile.

Arcann has no idea how people go about their lives loving as freely as they claim when even a hint of doubt, a moment's silence, brings him such uncertainty. When he wishes he could clothe the man he may love in electrum and steel, or better yet, remove all threat the galaxy may show him. Hide him away, perhaps.

Not that Sar would allow that. He's much too free a soul.

A pity. He could spend the rest of eternity watching him smile, as he is now.

“Commander?”

“If you’re going to kiss me you should really call me Yon.”


End file.
